Suffering. In Buddhism, one of the teachings is that of “life is suffering.” No, it doesn’t mean that all life aspects of life leads to suffering. Instead, the suffering we experience is due to the impermanence of life itself, i.e. all things change with time. It is the same with writing. As you grow as a writer, your writing changes, morphs in ways that you may least expect.
Perhaps your favourite authors are among those acknowledged as prize worthy. You spend hours pouring over every sentence in every book they have ever written, hoping to emulate them…but then realising that you fall severely short of the mark. Your writing simply will not conform to your expectation. Equally disturbing is understanding that your destiny is not to be the next Toni Morrison or Charles Dickens.
Still, you continue to write because you cannot help yourself but to write. Your writing reflects your suffering. It changes as you encounter life, find success, make mistakes, discover love, and regret loss. Like death, writing looms over your life, defining it. Regardless of whether you choose to embrace yourself as a writer or hide from it, writing is an inevitable part of you.
What’s the point of being a writer? You might as well ask What’s the point of living? There is no point. Writing is an end in itself. Writers write. Like breathing, there is no choice about it.
———-
I write because / I suffer because / I write because I suffer/ I suffer because I write
I’m almost certain that many writers spend time thinking about how to write more, why they aren’t writing more, when they can write more, if they should write more, if they can write more. I’m no exception.
Lately, I’ve been writing, but not publicly. I have an awful tendency to stop writing because I believe I have nothing of interest/importance to state–usually, that translates into “I feel like crap about myself in the world.” I recognize that writing about true feelings/thoughts not filtered through psychobabble scares the living daylights out of me. Seriously.
It is a scary thing just to write “I feel…” and not add something about Freud or CBT or DBT immediately before or after it. What would it mean to simply state my feelings, my thoughts unfiltered, uninhibited in my own little virtual space? Who knows. This, however, is the starting point.
It’s a promise to myself. Every morning, I will write something, anything on this little blog of mine. It may interest you. It may bore you to tears. The point, however, is that I am writing what is honest/authentic/true for me. I hope you’ll continue to give me your support.
Also, I an starting a health journey daily vlog upon my return to the US. It will run from May 25-August 15, and will be tracking my progress with taking better care of my overall (but mostly physical) health, including diet, exercise, hair, skin, etc. I am really ready to commit to a healthy vegan and natural lifestyle, and I would like to document that process. So, wish me good fortune on that as well.
Sometimes it’s when we are about to experience enormous change that we truly recognize the direction in which we are heading.
It’s that time again. Tomorrow, I will be hosting the Writers’ Cafe at Caffè della scala on Via della scala (4) in Trastevere. Event is from 6PM to 8PM. Hope you can make it out! 🙂
Image found via GIS and modified with Gimp. Click to visit event’s page on FB.
I’ve decided to begin a writers’ social in the early evenings on Thursdays. Ideally, it will become a space for writers (any genre) of all levels to share their thoughts about writing and their personal work, provide support and inspiration for each other.
Hopefully, we can make this into a community. 🙂
If you are in Rome, hope to see you on Thursday at Meccanismo in Piazza Trilussa!
In case you were wondering…yes, I am doing NaNoWriMo this year. I won’t be sharing my progress often as I am quite miserable at being regular in taking such tasks. Also, I shan’t share my goal at this time. Once I’ve achieved it, then I will share it. 😉 No jinxing the flow! About midway through and at the end, I will give updates.
I will also say that I am working on a rewrite of the work I started…two years ago. If you are curious, you can check my #NaNoWriMo tag. 😀 Wish me luck & Happy Writing!
It’s one of those hazy Roman September mornings: the kind that isn’t so hot that you feel like your only option is to remain indoors, fixed permanently in your bed or under your shower. Still, it is the kind that makes you a bit lazy about getting up or even bothering with finding mental clarity.
Rome, on these kinds of days, becomes a centrifugal blend of noises: the distinct songs of cicadas, the cobblestone scraping of straw brooms, the random knock of a hammer, the friendly greetings of neighbours, the midday ring of the church bells and the frustrated blares of traffic. It’s that kind of morning.
Leaves stand still, birds have gone incognito, laundry dries on clotheslines, and there isn’t a soul in sight–even if voices can be heard in between the sadness of moving sirens.
I’ve woken–sort of–to this kind of day: depleted of energy and bogged down in thoughts.
Go through the routine: meditate, stretch (on bed, too tired to stand), effectively putz around room and find: necessary papers, missing perfume bottle, a collection of hairpins, and worn out fortunes from the local Japanese/Chinese restaurant that has yet to reopen since the start of summer and is “Chiuso per Ferie,” feel pleased that the room has been swept, books have been stacked, and mind has woken just a bit more.
I take a look at my computer: glance at Facebook, post something personal and then professional; think about email and decide to avoid it for now; visit school/work blog and then personal, and find myself at this moment of…
Gratitude.
Thank you to my new followers for taking a chance on supporting my blog. Thank you to my old followers for your continued support. Thank you to my visitors for acknowledging my presence.
All of you have made this hazy day much less hazy–
You let me know that I continue to take the right steps on my path.
Until Next Time,
D.
P.S.
Interested in the Gratitude Journal in the image above?
The girl with the light eyes said,
The girl with the light eyes said,
“I would never have the courage
to marry another woman.”
She’s staring at me in awe,
though I don’t know why;
her light eyes even lighter
after she speaks and then waits,
enduring the space of silence
between us,
though I don’t know why;
I’m a lesbian, I love women.
I’m a lesbian who sleeps with men
every now and again
or so it seems in 15-year increments;
who is curious about others’ disbeliefs
sometimes distorting the face
from uninteresting,
from mediocrity,
from youthfulness,
from gullibility
marring the face
of commonplace society
of man plus woman,
of white against black,
of old envying young,
of bigotry and misogyny.
Still I am a lesbian, I love women,
could love all women,
prefer the company of women,
would live and die for a woman,
would give all I have for a woman,
because I am a woman and am worthy
of being loved by women,
of being able to commit myself to one woman
for the rest of my life.
*
Words that pass absently through mind.
It’s a library where we're standing
by a copy machine and I am photocopying
in entirety a book that I have no option but to read
like the face of this girl standing before me
and my face becomes distorted as I search
for mockery or untruths—
“Why not?”
-db
The Streets of Trastevere are Haunted
I spend a lot of time walking.
I’ve got no particular place to go,
but still I walk
pass the people who look
nothing like me,
pass the ones who speak
languages foreign to me,
pass the crippled homeless man
on that bridge, Ponte Sisto;
the one I cross too often,
the one that was built by prostitution,
the one where I see people
who look…
like me,
with shades of dark, naturally,
but darkened even more
by prolonged time spent
under the sun, selling
knock-off wares to tourists,
who barely care
and are feeling superior
(even though they would never admit it);
shades so dark that both sclera and teeth
appear whiter than the white
of those to whom they try to sell
tokens of meaninglessness,
and so my senses always become flooded
by the decay of living wastefully,
because I desire neither to feel nor to think
beyond the moment’s necessities,
because I desire neither the weight
of possessions nor being possessed
by life-long acquisition;
still it’s always like that,
that we are made to experience,
either directly or vicariously,
the things we reject:
these darkened men who
always stare and speak at me,
the homeless man who
always smiles and bows to me,
the self-inflated tourists who
always see and brush pass me
as I walk, step by broken step,
on cobblestones that hurt
my already broken feet
and engrave in my already broken soul
the fact that I’m living again somewhere
that doesn’t belong to me,
that is beyond anything
that I should’ve experienced:
this city and its history.
The streets of Trastevere are haunted.
And I’ve got nowhere but there to go,
passing by broken English speakers
offering this and that,
“Vivo qua” I say,
and again acknowledge to myself
that it’s already been three years
of vacuous time
that I’ve yet to fill with memories
of these streets,
of these people,
who spend everything:
time, money, bodies, minds,
and souls to achieve
the memories I refuse to acquire.
*
In the autumn the streets are owned
by starlings and umbrellas,
and evening becomes a time to fear,
with sounds like too many squeaking mice
to match the rats that run under feet,
down by the Tiber,
or up along the streets,
in the depth of the subway system,
where I heard that someone,
who didn’t belong here,
had their body tossed;
but they didn’t look like me,
probably they smiled and thought
the best of the world around them,
even of these haunted streets.
-db
The other day my sister, Michelle, posted the following to my Facebook page:
“Why are you skinny people doing this to yourselves??? I thought insanity was designed for overweight individuals???”
As you might imagine, the “insanity” to which she referred is the Insanity Workoutexercise program by Beachbody and led by Shaun T. Nine days ago, I decided to take the 8 week challenge and have been reporting my progress to friends and family via Facebook. I am happy to say that I have completed each day thus far and intend to continue so doing.
Now, back to my sister’s comment.
You see, she is right. I am not overweight and thus it would seem that I would have no just cause to take on such a workout program. Right?
FIBROMYALGIA (Photo credit: *SHESHELL*)
Wrong.
I decided to take on the Insanity Challenge, because I wanted to prove two points to myself:
1. I can achieve a high level of fitness as a person with fibromyalgia; and
2. I can take care of my body as I choose to without fearing input from others.
——
A world of secrets…
Back in 2008 when I was first diagnosed with fibromyalgia, my body had been changing rapidly. As I wrote in my recent posts, I had gain a significant amount of weight in only a couple of years. You see, before I started graduate school, I worked as a personal trainer and fitness instructor from 2002 to 2004. That period of my life was one in which I experienced a high boost to my body image. I was strong and healthy.
My weight then was higher than what it is now, but it was never a concern to me. My major concerns: strength and endurance. And if there is one thing that I have lamented greatly since having fibromyalgia was the loss of my physical strength and endurance.
With my weight gain came real health concerns, such as being warned about my blood pressure and having some other health issues being labeled as “due to excess weight.”
“If you had 5 minutes…,” collage with magazine and cardstock by Diedré M. Blake, (2010)
It was frustrating to find myself in that state and feeling that I couldn’t do anything physically about it…like exercise in the way that I had in the past. I was too tired. I felt too much pain. There was a bigger issue though…
Work.
As many of you know, I am an art therapist and counselor. I specialize in the treatment of eating disorders. This area of specialization developed from my second year internship and subsequent job. So, why would working within this area create a problem for me? Simply this…
How does a therapist embark upon a health improvement that would mean significant weight loss while reinforcing to her clients that their desire to lose weight was unhealthy?
For a long time, I did not have an answer. I worked in a place where there were strict rules on how food could be discussed and what foods could be eaten. Discussion of weight loss, weight loss programs, and diets was forbidden. This is not to say that these rules were always followed.
Also, there seems to be a very strange expectation, i.e. that all Black women are happy with being overweight. I write this because of various experiences I had while trying to manage my weight issues. The most memorable of these was an experience I had with an older White female nutritionist who worked at a local hospital.
I was given a referral to visit this nutritionist because both myself and my doctor believed that it would be good for me to have professional advice on how to safely and slowly lose my excess weight through diet, since exercise was proving difficult for me. At that time I was about 50 pounds overweight.
I sat with the lady and stated my reasons for coming to see her. From her lips came the following response:
“But you’re Black! Why would you want to lose weight? Aren’t all Black women a bit fatter that everyone else? Aren’t you people use to being like that?”
Now, some may believe that I am exaggerating…but I kid you not. Those were her exact words that are engraved upon my heart and mind. I was in disbelief.
There I was seeking help to lose the weight that was causing me severe health problems…and there was that lady telling me that I didn’t need to lose the weight because of my skin colour. Huh?
——
So, I realized that I had to do it on my own. I decided to take matters into my own hands as I wrote in my previous post. The thing was that at work, although I had explained to some that I was planning to lose weight, there was apparently discomfort that I had made such a choice.
Moreover, I did not discuss just how much weight I intended to lose, because that was no one else’s business except for me and my doctor. Looking back, perhaps it would have been better if I had simply stated a number, even though I did not have a number in mind.
The world in which I worked during that time became closed. I watched as people stared at me with curious and suspicious eyes. I listened as people made side comments about me. I answered as people kept asking me, “haven’t you lost enough now?” or “why are you still losing weight?”
And then there were the painful rumours regarding eating disorders and even my sexuality. It was a truly discouraging time. I often felt alone; and between having fibromyalgia and being the only Black clinician on staff as well as the only art therapist, I often felt misunderstood.
My studio space became a place of refuge during the last year of my weight loss. I watched as people, who were once willing to speak with me or were friendly with me, stop interacting with me. And, in all honesty, the decision to move to Italy came at the right time as who I had been no longer was. The new person did not fit in with my old world.
So, why have I written about this or about anything else?
Because it was time. Especially as a counselor specializing in eating disorders. You see, even counselors are human. 😉 Even we struggle with our bodies, including food concerns, weight and body image.
It is a strange paradox about the world of psychology. As a counselor you are expected to help others in overcoming their problems. At the same time, however, it is seemingly frowned upon by peers if you have problems of your own.
This Cold Hard Floor: II, watercolour and ink painting by Diedré M. Blake, 2006
some of us feel that there is a need to be invincible. That there is a need to hide what hurts us, to hide our struggles, to hide our true selves. We walk about attempting to be the tabula rasa (blank slate) for everyone, including our peers…and it just doesn’t work.
There is a reason why…
many of us, who were once bright and shining candles, finally burnout.
There is always a reason why…
I write about this, as well as the previous blog post, to write the truth about a topic for which I held tremendous fear: my weight loss.
I write because I believe that it is the job a therapist to be human and to show his or her client that there is always a path to be found out of the difficulties of life, not just via book lessons but through setting the example by how we live our own lives and how we take care of ourselves.
Self-portrait, August 2010, photography by Diedré M Blake
Preface:
Simply shocking…this article. I am taking a momentary pause from my hair issues to write about something that has really been on my mind lately: racism.
—-
From reading articles about racial profiling to even a Black woman being chased and threatened that she would be raped and lynched, I have had enough. Black women have been seemingly under blatant attack over the last few years…or better yet, centuries.
It seems that as Black women move up in society and make a place for ourselves, as we demand recognition for our work and our intelligence, as we endure hardships from inside and outside of our community, there are some who are trying their very best to stifle our voices and reduce us to those caricatures that plague mainstream media.
We are neither “hoes” nor are we “bitches” nor are we “mammies” nor are we “domineering,” nor are we “baby mammas,” nor are we “welfare queens,” nor are we any other form of degradation that many may want to lay at our doorsteps.
Indeed, consider us strong and proud women, who are unique in our self-expression and our external beauty; there is no shame in that. I hope you will agree.
—-
Here we go…
I am beginning to understand just how much in the “dark” I have been over the years. Sometimes I think that being from the Caribbean prevents and has prevented me from really understanding the mental and social plight that many people who look like me experience on a daily basis.
Recently I said to my partner, Matteo, that I see myself as being an extremely privileged Black woman. You may wonder why.
The reason is this: I grew up in a predominantly Black society until adolescence. I was never overtly taught about racism. It was only later in my early twenties that I came to understand that there was indeed a form of internalized racism going on in Jamaica.
That is, from childhood we are subliminally taught that those who were considered to have “pretty skin,” or “pretty hair,” or “pretty eyes” were those who had a lighter complexion, less coarse hair (think hair types 3c and above), and to have lighter coloured eyes (not dark brown like mine).
I remember blatantly hearing people who were very dark-skinned being referred to as “duppies” (ghosts) amongst other terms. Now back to my privilege.
For the love of the universe, I grew up listening to heavy metal, classical music, reggae, alternative rock, and country. I suppose I could add some more to that, but you get my point. 😉
The result of these characteristics is that I am a non-threatening entity to a potential dominant White majority. That is, I fit better into that world rather than in one that is dominated by people who look more like me–as I have often been accused by other Black people of being an “oreo,” i.e. Black on the outside, White on in the inside.
It is a sad thing to realize that because of all of these factors, I am shielded often from the prejudice that people who look like me face on a regular basis.
Even here in Italy, where racism is rampant, I was bluntly told that because I am perceivable “attractive,” then I would certainly not experience racism here.
What?? Let me state that again, I was told that Italians are only racist against Black people (or in my case, women), who they do not consider attractive. Really?? Okay…
This is not to say that I have not experience overt and covert racism as well as sexism. Indeed I have, both in my personal life and my professional life. I have been told things like “Oh, you aren’t ugly like other Black women;” “Oh, you are just like a man, intelligent.”
In high school in Florida, I had wanted to attend Berklee College of Music. The band director knew of my desire and had many times lauded me as an excellent musician…
I was, however, not given a letter of recommendation (even after multiple requests) , even though I had proven myself and was acknowledged as a multi-instrument composer and musician, who even led her own Baroque woodwind trio.
A more extreme example happened in college. I was directed not to file a complaint against a White student who assaulted me, because it would be difficult “for someone like me” to prove my case. Instead, I was moved to temporary housing.
While travelling as a student and even beyond, I was routinely stopped and search. Perhaps it is because I had
loc’s, (think marijuana), or
a Jamaican passport at the time (think hard drugs/marijuana), or
nowadays because I wear a head-wrap (think terrorist)–
although, I really should thank those airport personnel for the many head massages I have received as a result, and that one rather cute airport screener in London, who felt it was her personal duty to shove her hand down my pants. You know! 😉
I have been denied upward mobility in my career, by even being denied the possibility of my master’s thesis project being presented to and approved by an internal review board…
The result of this was a most necessary improvisation on my part and a scaled-down version of the project. It didn’t stop there.
Anyway, I could go on forever about the slights I have experienced…just like many other women of colour.
—-
You might be wondering why I am posting what could be perceived as a “rant.”
The reason is simple:
it is time for all people, regardless of socially-defined race and nationality, to wake up!
The colour of your skin, the organ that lies between your legs, the texture of your hair, the structure of your face, your height, your accent, your perceived physical endowments DO NOT dictate the state of your mind.
They do not dictate your capabilities.
They do not dictate your potential.
They do not dictate your intelligence.
They do not dictate whether or not you are a “good” or “bad” person.
Seriously, isn’t it about time that we stopped all of this tomfoolery? Why must we remain so divisive in our words and actions whether within or outside of our own “designated” groups?
I am afraid of the news that I see coming from various countries on the treatment of women who look like me (yes, I care about men too, but I am a woman first).
I am afraid that with the growing belief that racism no longer exists, we are becoming too complacent and letting our awareness slip noticing the everyday occurrences of racial/ethnic/sexual/gender/physical biases that are happening right in front of our very eyes.
Toward the within... 